


raw food

by Comedia



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Jokes, Happy Ending, M/M, Smoking, Swearing, a short weird story that came to me in a dream, except for when he's drunk, hanzo eats garbage food, jesse is into the whole vegetarian raw food thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13100403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: Hanzo is a regular at a bar, and lately another regular has caught his attention. They spend a night together, full of beer and laughter and sexy times. The next morning the man has the audacity to reject Hanzo's offer of pop tarts for breakfast.





	raw food

Hanzo has frequented the same bar for a couple of months now. It’s how he usually approaches a new city. Find a tiny studio apartment. Buy a shitton of frozen pizza, instant noodles and poptarts. Locate the nearest supplier of alcohol. Work in the days while eating garbage. Hate-workout for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Take a couple of drinks at sundown. Climb to the rooftop of the shitty little studio apartment. Stare at the sky wistfully for a second like he has an interesting inner life. Then sleep and repeat.

When you frequent the same bar, you take notice of the others haunting the place. You catch the attention of the barkeep who happily tries to win your approval by being jovial. Hanzo hates joviality. He’s seriously considering searching for an alternative to this hellhole - except the beer is cheap, and the bar itself is in a basement. It’s dark. Wooden. The kind of atmosphere that keeps the loud and inexperienced drinkers away. So he stays. For now.

He also stays because just past ten on tuesdays and thursdays, like clockwork, a rugged, bearded man shows up. His hair is always wild and tangled, and more often than not hidden by a tacky cowboy hat. Whenever he enters there’s a cigar at the corner of his mouth, and every time he has to be reprimanded by the barkeep to put it out. The man is loud, even his footsteps pound against the floor, and he’s always smiling. Hanzo does not trust men who smile. They are always hiding something.

And yet Hanzo stays to watch this man. Sipping his beer - because sometimes he has some class after all - and looking without staring. At least he tries not to stare. But the man often wears tight pants and loose, flannel shirts with rolled up sleeves. Since Hanzo is good at observation he’s noticed how those very shirt sleeves seem close to bursting whenever the man moves. It’s a sight, alright, and Hanzo will put up with cheery barkeeps if this is the reward.

When you notice someone, and spend a many days noticing them, they usually end up noticing you in return. And so Hanzo finds himself with company one day. The rugged man orders his regular bourbon - of course it’s bourbon - and unceremoniously sits down opposite Hanzo.

“Hi there, pal”, he says, his drawl somehow intimate instead of annoying. Hanzo is immediately annoyed by how pleasant it sounds. “I’ve seen yah around.”

“Have you now?” Hanzo mumbles, his lips still on the mouth of his beer bottle. It does not escape him how the man’s eyes are drawn to his lips, and so he takes a sip, perhaps exaggerating his movements just a bit.

“Kinda hard to not notice regulars, y’know?” The man sips his bourbon. Tips his hat in a belated greeting. “Also kinda hard to not notice the burning of an attractive man’s stare at the back of my head.”

Hanzo stares at him, feeling at a loss.

“I never stare.” Hanzo says, and orders another beer. The cheapest on the menu, because he would rather die than order fancy alcohol.

“I’ll pay for that.” The man intercepts Hanzos order, waving a couple of dollar bills around. “Make it two, and make ‘em organic.”

This time Hanzo will admit to even himself that he stares. It is not a stare of appreciation. He can see the menu from here - the organic beer is more than three times the price of his original order.

“Are you trying to flaunt your money or something?”

The smile falters from the man’s face for a moment, but then he laughs. “Hell nah, I’m an English teacher.”

“Good, because I’m richer than you”, Hanzo says without hesitation, and feels proud that he didn’t question how someone like this caricature of a man could possibly qualify as an English teacher.

“Don’t doubt it, darlin’, most people are.”

Their beers arrive, and they drink in silence. It angers Hanzo immensely that the silence isn’t uncomfortable - if it was he would have an excuse to leave. Now he must sit here and chug organic beer like a buffoon, his skin crawling, his fingers tense with intent. 

The night does not wait for them. It rushes on, as nights tend to do, and they drink a few more beers until the man is laughing uncontrollably, leaning across the table to hold Hanzo’s hand. Hanzo does not hold hands, it’s just not part of who he is, but he does not pull back either. It is a pleasant feeling, to speak like he normally does and be met with appreciation. Hanzo isn’t exactly a person who puts on a show to please people. He speaks the words in his mind, and more often than not they’re blunt and crass. Apparently this man likes blunt and crass.

“I need to eat”, he says.

“I know a place darlin’ - you’ll love it”, the man replies, and Hanzo is thankful that they won’t be eating at the bar.

The city is cold. Smog is in the air. For a moment Hanzo wishes that he was far away from his studio apartment. That he could get lost with this man. But his home is just around the corner when the man stops at a hole-in-the-wall burger place.

“Nothin’ like a good burger after a night of drinkin’”, the man says, gesturing to the menu.

“Order what you want, my treat.” Hanzo mutters, and his heart might flutter a little when the man responds with giddily clapping his hands.

“You’re an angel darlin’.”

“Pick one, I can’t be both.”

“Both what?” The man orders for both of them, and then looks at Hanzo with eyes that are more than a little distracted.

“It’s a bit much with both angel and darling in the same sentence.”

“I’ll show yah a bit much”, the man whispers and adds about a dozen toppings to each burger. Hanzo does not have it in his heart to protest; this meal is close enough to his normal diet of garbage. 

The man grabs their order, and Hanzo pays. Then they stand still in the street. With the burger place being a hole-in-the-wall type of deal, there is nowhere to sit and consume their meal. The man eyes Hanzo up and down, and his gaze lingers.

“Where to now, darlin’?” The man can’t seem to stand still. “My place is not far.”

“My apartment. It has a table.” Hanzo grumbles and starts walking, trusting the man to follow. It is like a miniature trust fall, and when the man falls in line, something in his chest heats up a bit.

He leads the way, through the entrance, up the stairs until they reach the top floor. He does not fumble with his keys, because he is a man who can handle his alcohol. When they are inside his apartment, Hanzo takes off his jacket, boots and scarf. Once he’s done he takes the burgers from the man, and watches him take his jacket and hat off.

It’s a one room studio. Table in the middle, kitchen against one wall, his bed in the opposite corner. If nothing else, it has a quite nice panoramic view of the city. You win some, you lose some. Or well, most people do, Hanzo does not. He has not won in a long time, but on this very night he feels hopeful.

He sets the burgers down on the table, and then gets a couple of beers from the fridge. When he turns around he finds that the man has tore his wrapper open and is devouring his cheese and bacon burger with extra mozzarella, avocado, cheddar, salsa and guacamole. For a moment, he simply enjoys the sight; the man hunched over; his sleeves rolled up; and then he sets the beers down and sit down opposite the man. Cracks open one of the bottles and starts drinking.

“Will it be hard for yah eatin’ the burger?” The man stops eating and just looks at Hanzo intently. Gleaming eyes, fixated on Hanzo’s lips, his nose, traces his features like he’s an exquisite painting.

“What?”

“With all them piercings?” The man gestures with his burger towards the general area of Hanzo’s face, and only drips a little on the table.

Hanzo shrugs. “They rarely interfere with my life.”

The man mutters thoughtfully. Cocks his head and blinks a couple of time. “It’s rare to see someone of your age with piercings.”

“Excuse me?”

The man does not seem embarrassed by having said something so ridiculous. Instead he leans forward, beaming. “I like it, ya know? The hair. The grey spots suit yah, darlin’.”

Hanzo does not blush, no, he tears up the burger wrapper and devours it in five bites tops. He also keeps eye contact with the man the entire time. While he’s not sure what kind of impact he’s hoping for, he finds his action successful when the man stands and pulls him to his feet.

They tumble into the bed a mess of limbs and wandering hands, and when their lips meet Hanzo can still taste salsa on the man’s breath; he places a myriad of small kisses at the corner of Hanzo’s mouth, teases him just so, and when he finally, finally, opens his lips for Hanzo, he is gentle and teasing. Hanzo is not used to gentle or playful. He is more of a let’s go once; let’s go hard; let’s never meet again. However, he feels oddly at home in the man’s embrace, and finds himself arching up towards his touch.

The man’s hands are warm, and Hanzo cannot wait to free him of the rest of his clothes. He wants to touch as much of the man’s skin as possible. He shoves both hands down to unzip the man’s pants, and then he stops cold. The man seems worried for a bit, and Hanzo feels nothing but embarrassment. 

“I don’t know your name”, he says, his hands still on the zipper of the man’s pants. He holds himself still, gazing up at those brown eyes best he can through his hair. In his defense, the man doesn’t know Hanzo’s name either.

“Gee, where are my manners.” The man leans in, stroking the hair out of Hanzo’s face. “The name’s Jesse McCree, an yer name…?”

“Hanzo, Hanzo Shimada.”

Jesse smiles, and it’s a disgustingly sweet smile at that. “I’m very much lookin’ forward to takin’ you to bed, Hanzo Shimada.”

“Shut up, Jesse McCree”, Hanzo says and pulls him in for a kiss, and for a moment there is silence. He gets the pants unbuttoned fairly easily - Hanzo has always been nimble with his fingers. Once he has Jesse on his back, in nothing but boxers and a flannel shirt, he sighs happily. He could not, for the life of him, keep the happy little noise bottled up. Jesse grins in reply, but does not make a comment or poke fun. Hanzo thinks he might, actually, really like this man.

They make love slow and sweet and the sunrise paints the walls of the studio an amber red. Hanzo may get laid pretty often, but it has been years since he had something like this. Something where it feels like he has a connection with someone. Someone who seems so ridiculously happy to be in Hanzo’s bed and to share his breath and come undone beneath his sheets.

He falls asleep on Jesse McCree’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. The sun is already high in the sky, and Hanzo plays with Jesse’s chest hair as he is slowly embraced by sleep. He does not dream. Hanzo never dreams.

Later in the day Jesse is awake and dressed, and he gently shakes Hanzo awake.

“Mornin’ darlin’”, he whispers, and to Hanzo’s barely-conscious mind his voice sounds like melted caramel. “Gotta go, got a class to teach in a few hours. Should grab some food before then, an a change of briefs.”

Hanzo rolls out of bed naked, and pulls on a pair of boxers without fully opening his eyes.

“I’ve got stuff.” He’s already over by his kitchen, opening the cupboards and showing his assortment of poptarts and sugary cereal. There is also a lot of crisp corn.

“Oh, uh, I think I’ll pass, darlin’. Not my type o’ food - I do the vegan raw food type of thing. I’ll just grab some juice on my way to work.” Jesse McCree’s eyes widen in horror, and he backs away from the kitchen as if Hanzo just killed a man in cold blood. “But ‘s been a real swell night. Hope to be seein’ yah ‘round.”

Within two seconds the man has put on his hat and is out the door. The last thing he does is plant a quick kiss on Hanzo’s forehead - and then Hanzo is alone. In his hallway. Wearing only boxers.

Hanzo has never been so enraged in his entire life. He angrily chews down a poptart, furiously pulls on his clothes (and only tears his pants a little), and then he goes to the gym to hate-workout for the remainder of the afternoon. Getting his blood pumping does not help one bit. He still feels confused and betrayed and angry at life.

At the end of the day he heads to the bar, at no will of his own. His legs just take him there, and he has no say in the matter. Same old cheap beer. Same table in the corner, to stay out of people’s sight. He is lurking, stalking, like a mighty tiger, or dragon, or something.

When Jesse McCree enters later in the evening he does not reach the bar before Hanzo strikes.

“I have seen you eat cheeseburgers.”

Jesse just stares at him. Then he takes three slow steps towards the bar and sits down. He does not have to order - the cheery barkeep puts his bourbon down in front of him within seconds.

“Cheeseburgers with extra bacon.” Hanzo presses, his fists clenched, his chin locked in an uncomfortable position. He gives the cowboy-wannabe his best death glare.

“Fine, I hear yah.” Jesse gestures for him to sit down next to him at the bar, but Hanzo prefers to stand. “Sometimes I slip up, don’t we all? ‘Specially when drunk. But my goal‘s to keep it a hundred percent green, a hundred percent organic, n’ preferably a hundred percent raw.”

Oh I’d love to raw you, Hanzo thinks, and then immediately starts coughing, because his mind is playing tricks on him today. 

“I know darlin’ - it may seem like a trend or a silly hangup, but I’m just tryin’ to do my part.” Jesse sips his bourbon and his eyes sparkle with a genuinity that absolutely digusts Hanzo.

He stands in silence for a long time. Normally, this is when he exits. Actually, no. Normally he would have said farewell to his one night stand in the morning, and found a new bar to ensure they never meet again. Jesse McCree is not a one night stand. He is funny, beautiful, and he hollows out his cheeks like no one Hanzo’s ever been with before.

“My place tomorrow. At seven.” Hanzo mutters, because he is a troubled soul and it is his main form of communication. Then he turns and leaves, but only after seeing Jesse’s face light up with a smile.

He takes a long, warm shower when getting home. The hot water reminds him of Jesse, and if he ends up touching himself before falling asleep that is his business. 

In the morning Hanzo climbs to the roof, a cup of noodles precariously jammed into his pocket. It’s a dewy morning. The sun hangs low just above the skyline, seemingly refusing to climb any higher into the sky. He sits there for hours. The noodles grow cold, but he slurps them up anyway - anything else would be a waste. He finds it easy to think when the city is laid out before him like this. When he’s removed from the going ons of others, and can simply watch society from afar.

As his gaze trails the street below him, Hanzo thinks of Jesse. His warm touch and his bubbling laugh - the voice deep enough to send shivers down Hanzo’s spine. Jesse is heat, he is pure and a force of nature, just like the sun. Like the sun he will most likely burn hot and bright and eventually extinguish Hanzo, because Hanzo is as cold and unchanging as a glacier. Yet he is drawn to that heat, and he’d rather spend a few hours in the sun than run away and seek the shade.

It’s high noon when Hanzo heads into town. He’s only ever gone food shopping at the local supermarket, so he spends well over an hour searching for a place that carries all the ingredients he needs. Once inside a store that seemingly only sells vegetables, nuts and organic wine, he is officially lost. With great hesitation he googles a few recipes, and then goes about procuring the ingredients.

Back at his apartment he spends about an hour styling his hair, and another hour picking out a shirt. His entire wardrobe may be monochrome, but that does not make it easier. With less than an hour until Jesse’s arrival, he can not procrastinate any longer.

Hanzo chops kale, carrots, tomato and an onion. Mixes olive oil, mustard and honey and calls it a dressing. Mixes it all together with his hands, and then washes his hands for at least five minutes. Why would you interact with food on such a personal and sticky level when you can simply heat something ready-made? Hanzo curses the day he was born.

He lights about a dozen candles and sets the table. Feels kind of proud that he has enough plates and cutlery for two. It’s a quarter to eight, so he opens the both bottles of organic wine - a red and a white, just to play it safe. Then he takes a swig from the red and decides that it’s not half bad. Walks in circles in the studio, bottle in hand, as the candles slowly eats away at the air. He might die here, right by the salad.

The knock on the door catches him off-guard, catches him just as he’s about to take a swig from the wine bottle. The liquid splashes him not only in the face, but runs down his throat and gets all over his shirt. Thankfully it’s dark blue and the wine only shows up as a darker shade of blue. In fact, the way his shirt clings to his skin might prove to be an advantage after all.

He opens the door, and Jesse’s beaming smile quickly turns into poorly hidden hunger as his gaze wanders to Hanzo’s shirt.

“The organic wine attacked me.” Hanzo says, and is met with laughter and a kiss before Jesse enters the apartment. While the cowboy-wannabe takes off his jacket and hat, Hanzo goes to the table and pours what’s left of the wine into two glasses. Then he turns around and gestures for Jesse to sit.

“Please”, Hanzo says, gesturing to the disgustingly green dishes. “It’s…” and he’s choking on the words, because he cannot believe these foods are even in his home. He takes a swig of his organic red wine and tries not to grimace too much. “Kale salad.”

Jesse sits down, but almost misses his chair. He stares at the table; the bowl of salad, the organic wine bottles, and Hanzo might imagine things, but it looks like his eyes are sparkling more than usual.

“Come ‘ere.” Hanzo only hesitates for a second, then he walks over to Jesse, and the second he is within reach Jesse grabs his hand. Strokes it his with his thumb, and it seems like he can’t stop smiling. “Yer a special one, Hanzo Shimada.”

“I knew that kale would make your dick hard”, Hanzo says, straddling Jesse and staining his white shirt with his wine soaked clothes. “You love that organic shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write short things on [tumblr](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/) as well (but mostly I just cry about fictional characters).


End file.
